“Aunt Pearl,” said Tim.
She went immediately to the stove, peered into the pot. “Fudge. Wonderful. I just bombed out in the Snakes and Ladders tournament. A big one. Anaconda, I think.” She nudged Gregoire “You wouldn’t have a little drink for an old lady?”
“How about a nice glass of cranberry juice?”
“How about a Black Russian?” She smiled as he dug into the cupboard. “How’s my darling niece getting along?”
“She’s enjoying herself immensely,” said Tim.
Tiffany took the fudge off the burner, set it aside to cool. “We were talking about the wedding.”
“I’m looking forward to that.” Pearl took the glass Gregoire held out.
“We were just saying something always seems to happen when Miss Miller is around,” said Gregoire.
Pearl waved that off. “Don’t blame Miss Miller. Blame Rudley. We haven’t had a week without sirens blaring since he bought the place.” She paused. “I can still see that unfortunate man dangling from the ski lift.”
Tiffany mixed a teaspoon of vanilla into the fudge, poured it into a pan, and set it aside. “I’m glad I wasn’t here to see that.”
Pearl tested her drink, gave it a nod of approval. “The wedding’s going to be a real wingding. I’ll never forget my wedding.”
They leaned toward her expectantly.
“St. Albans. Great old thing from the seventeenth century. I wore a full-length gown with seed pearls. The bridesmaids were a veritable rainbow of pastels. Winnie and his attendants in morning suits. Cute little flower girl — fifth cousin or something. Cute little ring bearer. John Elgie from Coventry, the best church organist outside of London, played the wedding march. Lovely reception at my parents’ country home. Then off to a honeymoon on the continent.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Tiffany,
Aunt Pearl thought for a moment. “Actually, it was a real bore. How Mother roped me into that, I can’t imagine. By the time it was over, Winnie and I were wishing we’d eloped.” She drained her glass. “So a night in the woods. That’s Margaret’s camping trip.”
“I think it’s just a trial run,” said Tim.
Gregoire sniffed. “Yes, it is a trial run. Mr. Rudley is hoping Margaret will be so put off by the experience, she will beg him not to repeat it.”
Tiffany smiled. “I think they really just wanted some time to themselves.”
“I have to admit, Margaret, it is rather relaxing here.”
Margaret emitted a soft snore.
“So much for lying awake deep into the night, listening to owls and so forth.” Rudley folded his arms behind his head, stared up at the nylon ceiling. Time was, a tent was canvas, he thought. Wonderful chemical smell.
He’d loved camping out when he was a boy. He and his pal Squiggy Ross would hike up into the woods, pitch a tent, do a little fishing. They’d fry the fish over an open fire, bake potatoes in the coals. Toast a few marshmallows. Take turns telling ghost stories. No one thought anything of letting two young boys go off into the woods overnight. It was a more innocent time.
He smiled. His old friend Squiggy, the blue-eyed boy with the blond curls and gap-toothed smile. Squiggy was still camping out, but now it was in downtown Galt, minus teeth, minus hair, with a cap between his knees, collecting change for a cheap bottle of wine.
Like most boys, Squiggy wanted to be a fireman. Rudley had always assumed he’d be a doctor like his father. Then he took a summer job at the Baltimore Hotel and he knew he’d found his calling.
The Baltimore was a magical place. He relished entering the lobby every morning. The gleaming oak hardwood floor with its scarlet runner. The long solid oak front desk with its leather-bound register, and the bell you struck smartly for service. The amber wainscoting and old-fashioned wallpaper with its pastoral motif. The umbrella stand just inside the front door. He chuckled. Back then, it was safe to leave a good umbrella in a public stand. Everybody in town knew your umbrella. They’d beat anyone to a pulp if they caught it on them. The dining room, one step down through frosted French doors. The aroma of bacon and eggs and toast. The wide staircase with its curved banister. The elegant old elevator with its brass gate. He’d started as a scullery boy that first summer, worked his way up to janitor. The year before he left to go to college he’d graduated to bellhop and thought he knew everything there was to know about the operation of a hotel.
His father had not been delighted when he informed him he’d be forgoing medical school. “Innkeeper,” he’d said. “Probably better than being a vaudevillian — although not much.” He’d worked in grander hotels during his apprenticeship, interned at more pretentious resorts, but not until he laid eyes on the Pleasant did he feel the thrill of having rediscovered the Baltimore.
He considered his father’s words. Of course, he could have been a vaudevillian. He was almost as good a dancer as Fred Astaire. At least as good as Gene Kelly. Kelly didn’t have the body for dance, in his opinion. Always looked like a bull pirouetting about. He shrugged. Great dancers were a dime a dozen. “How many great innkeepers do you know?” he asked Margaret. She did not respond. He smiled. He knew what she would say: “You’re the best, Rudley.” That’s what she would say.
The fudge was ready. Tim helped himself to a piece. “I saw Officer Owens in town today.” He winked at Gregoire. “He looked rather dashing.”
Tiffany gave Tim a frosty look. “How very nice for you.”
Gregoire gave the counter a wipe. “It is better than having him here, which we do all too frequently.” He paused. “He is always welcome, of course, in his unofficial capacity.”
Tiffany looked away. “Officer Owens’ activities are of no concern to me.”
Tim and Gregoire exchanged glances.
After a long pause, Tiffany said, “I’ve had second thoughts about Officer Owens. I’m not sure we’re compatible.”
Gregoire rolled his eyes. “Just last week you were telling us it was refreshing to have an uncomplicated relationship. You said that was the problem with your previous situations. That your beaux were oozing with existential angst and performance anxieties about their iambic pentameters and arpeggios.”
She gave him a defiant look, then relented. “You’re right. I did say that.”
Tim made a pretence of searching his memory. “Let me see, you said you liked the fact he was transparent, that you didn’t feel he was playing games. You said he was easy to be with. Thoughtful. Unlike Officer Semple who, although he could play a musical instrument, was self-involved.”
She folded her arms. “True.”
Tim raised his brows. “So?”
“He’s not sufficiently challenging.”
Gregoire removed his apron. “I do not understand this business of a challenge.” He balled up his cap, stuffed it into his pocket. “You are attracted to someone. You do things together you enjoy. You go to fine restaurants. You eat magnificent food, drink excellent wines. Perhaps you prepare gourmet meals together. You go to the theatre. After, you stop at the café for dessert and cappuccino. You travel, sample the local cuisine. What is it with these complications and challenges?”
Tiffany looked at him, bewildered.
Tim straightened his tie. “What Gregoire is trying to say is that you don’t need to subject your soul to constant nitpicking. You hook up with someone you like and go with the flow.”
Gregoire sniffed. “I think I said it more eloquently.”
Tiffany turned away, turned back, lower lip quivering. “The truth is I’ve learned something disturbing about Officer Owens. Something unforgivable.”
Gregoire’s eyes blazed. “He has been unfaithful. I will give him a piece of my mind.”
Tiffany shook her head.
Tim cleared his throat. “He drinks too much.”
“No. He’s a veritable teetotaler.”
“He has struck you.” Gregoire balled the corners of his jacket into his fists. “I will tear him from limb to limb.”
Tim took a turn around the kitchen, stopped in front of Tiffany. “Let’s see. He doesn’t use deodorant. He turns into a werewolf when the moon is full.”
She closed her eyes. “He hunts.”
Tim and Gregoire looked at one another.
“He’s the most perfect man I’ve ever met and he kills animals.” She began to wail.
An owl hooted. Twigs snapped. Margaret sat bolt upright. “Rudley, what was that?”
He responded without opening his eyes. “In my dreams, it was a Siberian yak.”
She grabbed him by the shoulder. “No, really, there’s something thrashing about in the bushes.”
Rudley crawled out of his sleeping bag, groped for the flashlight, fumbled to the tent flap on hands and knees. He thrust the flashlight through the slit, caught the tail end of a fleeing creature. He snapped the flashlight off.
“What was it, Rudley?”
“I think it was a deer.”
“It sounded too big to be a deer. Are you sure it wasn’t a bear?”
“I don’t think so, Margaret.” He backed into his sleeping bag. “Even if it was, it was running away from us.”
She sighed. “That’s a sensible way to look at it.”
“I’m always sensible.”
She let that go. “Good night, Rudley.”
“Good night, Margaret.”
Chapter 4
Gregoire woke at four, a few minutes before his alarm was set to go off, and headed for the shower. The early hours required by his job had never been a problem for him. His mother said he hadn’t slept more than four or five hours a night since he was born. He enjoyed a half-hour nap in the afternoon and always woke refreshed.
Tim’s door was ajar. He paused, listened, chuckled. The elegant Tim snored.
He climbed into the shower, turned the water to tepid.
He considered Tiffany’s problem as he worked his hair into a lather. Officer Owens was a nice man, patient, respectful. But he shoots Bambi, he thought, and Booboo. He paused, clutching the bar of soap to his chest. The man was a philistine.
He reviewed the menu for the day: prime rib, rack of lamb… Frowned. “You are as much of a murderer as he is,” he muttered.
He turned off the shower and tumbled out, reaching for his towel. His dark curls sprang out like corkscrews. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, tried to smooth the disobedient curls with one hand. He pulled on his bathrobe, returned to his room, parted the curtains to check the weather.
Dawn threw a sheet of silver over the lake. Rocks and trees lurked in the gloom along the shallows.
He treasured this time of morning. Before the fishermen invaded his kitchen for their thermoses of coffee. Before Tim flitted through the dining room, bringing the full glare of the sun — Tim brought the sun even on cloudy days. Before the clatter of dishes broke the silence. Before the ovens diluted the subtlety of the natural fragrances. Before everyone started blundering around. He liked people, but this fragment of the day belonged to him. He put on his whites, captured his hair under his cap, and tiptoed into the hallway. He paused at Tim’s door. “You snore,” he whispered.
Lloyd rolled out of his cot in the tool shed behind the inn. He had a room in the bunkhouse but he liked to sleep in the open, and the tool shed was almost as good as being outdoors. Mrs. Rudley didn’t mind him living in the tool shed but insisted that he move into the bunkhouse once it got cold. Mrs. Rudley worried about him. She worried about everybody, but he knew she worried about him especially because she thought he was an orphan. He wasn’t, but, since he had told her he was, he couldn’t take it back. At first, he thought he couldn’t tell her the truth because she might decide he didn’t need all those extra pieces of pie if he had parents. But now he realized he couldn’t tell her because knowing he had lied to her would hurt her feelings. He knew she would find out someday, probably when his parents died. Someone would put a notice in the paper and Mrs. Rudley read the local paper every morning. He decided that the only way to shield Mrs. Rudley from the truth would be to have her die before his parents did. But he didn’t want that to happen either. He liked Mrs. Rudley. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the day of reckoning lay in the distant future: Mrs. Rudley’s mother had lived a long time and his grandmother was still living. He calculated it might be fifty years before his parents passed on, and, by that time, Mrs. Rudley’s memory might not be very good. Besides, he would be old by then too and Mrs. Rudley always said it was important to be kind to old people.
He watched a grey squirrel work its way down the pine tree, then picked up his towel and went outside to his camp shower. He would rather have washed in the lake as he had for years, but last year Mrs. Rudley told him he couldn’t. She said the soap wasn’t good for the fish. He guessed it wasn’t, but, since he was the only one who bathed in the lake, he didn’t think it would do any harm. He thought the real reason Mrs. Rudley had barred him from the lake was that a lady with a cottage on the point had complained that she saw a naked man in the lake while she was watching the deer with her binoculars. He could have showered in the bunkhouse but he liked to be outdoors.
He showered, dressed, and hung his towel on a tree limb to dry. He was hungry but he wanted pancakes and Gregoire wouldn’t have the griddle ready until nearly seven. He got out the cultivator, planning to work on the flower beds at the front of the inn. Then he would go in for a coffee and a bun until Gregoire could fix his pancakes. He rounded the corner of the inn, stopped.
A man lay on his back on the wicker lounge on the veranda, his hat tipped over his eyes. Lloyd leaned the cultivator against the wall and climbed the steps to the veranda.
“Yoo hoo.”
The man mumbled, waved him away.
Lloyd shook the man by the shoulder. “Yoo hoo.”
Jack Arnold pushed his hat back. He was unshaven and stank of stale booze. “What in hell do you want?”
“People’ll be coming in soon for breakfast.”
Arnold stared at him. “What time is it?”
“Late. Almost six-thirty.”
Arnold pulled his hat back down to shield his eyes against the sunlight. “Christ, what are you doing up at this hour?”
“Things to do. You stay here all night?”
Arnold sighed. “I guess so.”
Lloyd grinned. “I like sleeping outside too, but Mrs. Rudley doesn’t like it. She says I’ll get pneumonia.”
Arnold turned his head, groaned, massaged his neck. “I don’t know about sleeping outdoors but I wouldn’t recommend sleeping on this thing.” He gestured toward the door. “I don’t suppose I could get a cup of coffee.”
Lloyd pointed to the trail of mud up the steps and across the veranda. “You got mud on your shoes.”
Arnold cocked his head to look down. “Guess I do.” He yawned. “Maybe I’ll just wait until the dining room opens.”
“I can get you some coffee, but you can’t go into the dining room with your boots all muddy.”
Arnold looked at the veranda. “I guess I did track it all over.”
“And on the cushions,” said Lloyd, pointing to the lounge.
Arnold managed to look sheepish. “Forget the coffee. I’ll go down to my cabin and call for room service when the dining room opens.”
“If you go down, I’ll bring you some coffee, but you’ll have to leave your shoes outside until you can clean them.”
Arnold laughed. “You have a housekeeper, don’t you?” He scrubbed a hand across his lips. “God, my mouth tastes like a garbage can. They must have snuck me something cheap.”
“I’ll get you the coffee and clean your shoes. Tiffany’s got a lot of cleaning.”
Arnold lay back. “Sounds good, buddy. I’ll catch a nap until you get back.”
Lloyd went around to the back porch and into the kitchen where he told his story to Gregoire.
“The man is a pig,” Gregoire fumed. He poured coffee i
nto an insulated mug. “This is good enough for him. I will not have him smashing the good china over the veranda.” He pinched his nostrils. “I can smell his foul body from here.”
Lloyd took the coffee to the veranda. Arnold had fallen asleep. He put the coffee down, tugged off Arnold’s shoes. He took them around to the side of the house, hosed them down, and set them aside. He pulled the soiled cushion out from under Arnold’s feet, took it to the back porch where he laid it on the railing to dry. He brought the hose around to the veranda and began to wash down the steps.
Tim wheeled around the corner from the bunkhouse. He stopped and stared at Arnold, who had flopped onto his side and was drooling on his shirt. “What’s he doing here?”
“Don’t know,” said Lloyd. “Was here when I got here.”
“He looks as if he spent the night in a pigsty. He’s got mud all over his pant legs. Where’d he get that from?”
“Don’t know,” Lloyd said, “but he got mud all over the veranda.”
“I hope he doesn’t plan to go into the dining room. I’ll boot him into the next lake if he does.”
“Told him he couldn’t.”
Tim gave Arnold a disparaging look and went on into the kitchen. Gregoire was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.
“Is it ready?”
Gregoire gave him an impatient wave. “I have the popovers coming out of the oven in precisely thirty seconds. I will be serving them with strawberries and fresh Devon cream. Then pigs in the blankets with citrus chutney. They will think they are in their honeymoon cottage in Cornwall.”
“Tea, then, instead of coffee?”
Gregoire made a face. “I am afraid the fantasy ends there. If Mr. Rudley misses his coffee, it will be a horror show in here.”
Tim helped himself to the strawberries. “I hope they had a good night.”
Gregoire opened the oven and pulled out the popovers. “They are probably aching in every joint and covered with insect bites and poison ivy.” He took out a carafe, filled it with coffee. “Now, if you will stop eating the strawberries, perhaps you could take this to them.”
Margaret opened her eyes, smiled. “Rudley, isn’t that cute?”
A Most Unpleasant Wedding Page 4
